Cacoethes
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: On Harry's 10th birthday, he unwrapped the first presents he had ever been given from the Dursleys: a coat hanger, a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks, and a locket.
1. Chapter 1

_Title:_ Cacoethes

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter

_Rating:_ T, eventual M

_Pairing:_ Voldemort/Harry

_Disclaimer:_ JKR owns the Harry Potter franchise; and, if I was her, I'd rather spend my time swimming in my money ala Scrooge McDuck than writing fanfiction. (Though, then again, Tom and Harry are rather fun together, so I suppose that I can't even put a 100% claim to _that_... XD)

_Summary:_ On Harry's 10th birthday, he unwrapped the first presents he had ever been given from the Dursleys: a coat hanger, a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks, and a locket.

_Author's Note:_ La la la _laaaaaa_~ *ignores scolding* Yes, I probably shouldn't be starting another story while working on _Paradise Lost_ and _Jörmungandr_. But I've been chatting with Moth Gypsy lately and I've been having such a wonderful time talking with her that I wanted to write something in thanks. :3 A forewarning, though: _PL_ and _JR_ both take precedence, so Cacoethes _will_ be updated but _irregularly_ (and _will not_ be abandoned, I promise).

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**CHAPTER ONE**

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_cacoethes – n; an irresistible urge, mania_

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The day after his ninth birthday, Aunt Petunia went up to her nephew with a sweet, cloying smile playing about her lips and told him that—if he were a _good_ boy and promised to do all of his chores for the entire year and didn't sass back to his uncle, he would get a present for his next birthday. The promise seemed like it was too good to be true, and yet…

Harry had never before been given a present from his relatives.

Dudley's hand-me-downs, sure. A place to sleep and occasionally something to eat. But those were things that were expected of him, if only because he couldn't go out in public unclothed and, if he got too thin, people would question the Dursleys and eventually find out how they really did treat him. None of those things were gifts; they were _necessities_, and Harry had learned the difference the hard way the first time Aunt Petunia had given him a blanket to pad his mattress with during wintertime.

At his thanks, Aunt Petunia's upper lip had curled and she had turned away from him with a small sniff. It had been getting colder, she had informed him while her gaze turned flinty. She didn't want him to take the chance of getting a cold: his aunt wanted to make sure that Dudley stayed well and if Harry got sick who, then, would take care of the house? The words had been like a slap in the face, but Harry had quickly accepted it—what else could he do?—and had noted for future reference what the difference was.

A _gift _was not a _necessity_.

A _gift_ was a _luxury_.

And Aunt Petunia had promised that he would be given gifts for his next birthday if he did well; thus, Harry did all of Dudley's homework, slaving away over his fat cousin's assignments at the detriment of his own. He waxed Uncle Vernon's car every single day until the paint's sealant could no longer hold the polish and the liquid instead beaded off. He did housework—cooking, cleaning, small errands that he could get to on foot, and anything else that Aunt Petunia asked of him. He gardened the front and back yards, as well, and when springtime arrived Aunt Petunia proudly displayed the award that she had been given for "Best-Kept Home and Garden."

It was an award that she had been trying to get for years, but had always lost to Mrs. Fitzpatrick of 7 Wisteria Lane. This year, though… oh, _this year_, she had finally rightfully won the plaque from Mrs. Fitzpatrick's grubby grasp!

Aunt Petunia made Harry polish the award at least three times every single day.

The chores, the work, the derision, and the gloating over how beautiful the Dursley house was—everything and anything, Harry knew that he was willing to put up with because it meant that he would be given _presents_. Presents for the _very first time_, on his _birthday_! The thought was one that filled Harry with a sort of giddy excitement, a belly-deep expectation that burrowed itself deeper and deeper and knotted tighter and tighter the sooner that July 31st approached.

By the time that the day _finally_ arrived, Harry thought that he might faint from anticipation.

The boy slipped out from his cupboard beneath the stairs early in the morning on his birthday after having heard Aunt Petunia throw something at the door. It had landed with a quiet "thud" and since neither Uncle Vernon nor Dudley had come 'round to pick it up, the thing must have contained Harry's present.

The boy spotted a brown paper bag—the type that was used to place groceries in—that had the name "Harry" scrawled messily near the top. Breath coming quick, hitching with an overwhelming sense of bliss, the verdant-eyed boy reached out and hugged the bag to his chest before quickly darting back into the cupboard.

Harry turned on the light overhead, biting his lower lip as he looked down at the bag at the end of his mattress. His hands shook as he made to open the edges, and Harry forced himself to pause for a moment to take a deep breath, wanting to be _calm_ so that he could always remember this moment. Once he had himself under control, however, the ten year-old scooted closer to the bag and carefully began to open the top to peek inside.

And his heart plummeted.

There, at the bottom of the bag, Harry saw that his _gift_ compromised a coat hanger, bent and warped and well-past the ability to be used, and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. There was nothing else in the bag and it was then that Harry realized that this, _this_, was supposed to be his birthday present—the gifts that he had worked all year for. And though Harry knew that saying anything was impossible (he'd just get lectured on how he was ungrateful, always ungrateful, and that these presents, too, had had to be taken away from Dudley for some-reason-or-another), the boy still was fully aware of the fact that he had been _cheated_.

Bile rising in his throat, Harry shoved the bag off of his thin mattress and onto the floor, not wanting to deal with his _birthday gift_ any longer; it hurt to _think_ about it and, _seeing_ it, Harry had to fight hard to ward off tears. There was no point in crying. It never mattered, never helped in any way.

As the bag tumbled down to the ground, the dark-haired boy heard a muted "thunk"—the type of sound that was made when metal hit something hard. The same sound had happened when Harry accidentally knocked over Aunt Petunia's plaque; thankfully, though, the woman hadn't heard the noise and Harry had been quick to put the award back in its place before the horsey woman had meandered out from the kitchen with her usual cup of afternoon tea.

Curious now, Harry crawled closer to the end of his mattress and grabbed the bottom of the paper bag to upend its contents upon the wooden floor. The "thunk" was repeated, and the boy frowned slightly as he considered the two items. The hanger wasn't heavy enough to merit such a sound, but the socks… the socks were wool. It would have been impossible for them to make that "thunk" unless…

The boy scooped up the folded fabric and ran his fingers along each sock's length. When he got to the bottom of one, Harry finally felt the solid, unforgiving curves of metal tucked in the very tip of a toe.

He unrolled the socks from one another cautiously before tipping over the "special" sock, the one with the secret, to see what it was that it was hiding. Shaking it firmly, eyes intent upon his sheets to see what fell onto them, Harry's expression turned gobsmacked when a heavy silver locket tumbled from its prison to plop down heavily before the ten year-old's crossed legs.

"Wow…" Harry breathed as he held the amulet up, letting it catch the light from the naked bulb above him. The locket was tarnished and would require some polishing to get it to be shiny again—but that also meant that it was _real_ silver because it looked exactly like how Aunt Petunia's good silverware did before she made Harry polish them up when company came over.

An elegant "S" was etched upon the front of the locket, gracefully curving this way and that—almost serpentine in its movements, and Harry was reminded of the pet snake that he had helped take care of with the teacher when he was in second grade. Lightly, the boy traced the letter, jumping in surprise when a sharp spark sprung from the top—and then the locket divided itself in half and fell open.

There was a painting—or, at least Harry _thought_ that it was a painting; he had never seen a _real _one before so he wasn't quite sure that that was what it was—on the inside and he (the person in the painting!) moved, almost as if it were alive!

The man—the man that _moved_!—was obviously from a long time ago. He wore some sort of dress that swept down to the ground and a feathered serpent had its body twined comfortably around his torso. The man's hair was as dark as Harry's own—but much, much neater—and his eyes… his eyes were the exact same shade as Harry's!

No one had ever had the same color eyes as Harry before, and the boy knew that this locket was very, very special. Not only did it have a moving painting, but the man who was _in_ the painting had the same eyes as he did; the locket was old, positively ancient, and the boy wondered if this was some sort of magic talisman that would keep him safe, that only _he_ would have been able to find…

Maybe the man in the painting was Merlin!

The locket certainly looked old enough to come from the time of King Arthur's court… and if it really had come from back then, then it meant that there was something special about Harry to have found it, nestled as the locket had been in Uncle Vernon's sock. After all, if Aunt Petunia had known about it, _she_ certainly wouldn't have given it to her nephew as a birthday present! If anything, she would have pawned it and spent the money on Dudley.

But… _no_. The locket now belonged to Harry, and it was his secret—one that he'd never, ever give up. Lightly, the boy traced the edge of the locket, staring in fascination at the man in the painting as he smirked up at the child in turn.

"Freak! _Up!_"

Harry flinched as his aunt rapped harshly upon the cupboard's door, and he knew that it was time to come out to start on his chores for the day. Swallowing, the green-eyed boy glanced down—didn't want to leave it behind, in here, where Dudley could have easily stolen it—and, decision quick, Harry closed the locket and placed the chain over his head.

It took only a moment more before Harry stuffed the cool metal beneath his billowy shirt, hiding it from view. With his newfound secret hanging just over his heart, Harry eased his cupboard door open and stepped out of his room before padding on silent feet towards the kitchen so that he could begin to make breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note:_ …wow. XD;; Didn't expect the response that I got from the first chapter. Thank you! However, I'm still unsure as to how often this story will be updated—but, as I did promise in the first chapter, it _will _be updated and I fully intend to finish it, so no need to worry: it won't be abandoned. Future chapters, as well, will be getting longer the more that I work on them. Figured that this would be a nice place to stop for this round, though~ More will happen in chapter three... mostly with Voldemort, so there's your forewarning. *smirks* ;)

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**CHAPTER TWO**

The Dursleys had finally gone to bed.

It had been pure and utter torture listening to the family sit around the telly, laughing at the crude jokes that the comedian would crack, and Harry had spent the entire time with his nose pressed firmly against his cupboard's door, green eyes tracking his relatives obsessively each and every time one of them would get up—hoping, with bated breath, that they were finally planning on heading up the stairs to their respective bedrooms.

And finally, _finally_, after too many shows and too many hours, they had headed up to bed—Dudley not able to resist a last and final taunt as his feet slammed down upon the stairs just above Harry's head so that plaster and wood dust rained down upon him in a dirty cloud. The boy sneezed and Dudley laughed, making his way back up the stairway to go into his bigger bedroom.

It was with a beating heart, the muscle thrumming quickly like the wings of a hummingbird, that Harry pressed his hear against the vent of his cupboard, listening for any telltale movements that would give lie to the assumption that his aunt, uncle, and cousin had truly gone off to bed.

When he was certain that he was the only one still conscious in the house, Harry gave a slight shiver of delight and reached up to turn on the lightbulb above; it painted his small bedroom, the boot cupboard, in a sickly yellow light, but… it was better than the darkness that would have come otherwise.

With fingers that trembled, Harry gently coaxed the locket open once more so that he could look down at the man with his color of eyes. With absolute reverence in his touch, the small boy traced the edge of the locket with one slim finger, drinking in the sight of the portrait within his hands.

Eventually, however, the feathered serpent's tongue flickered out, annoyed at the wide, rapt gaze of the staring child. Its head bobbed before turning to glance at the man it was currently wrapped around. »The Muggle doesn't seem to have any manners,« it commented, voice sardonic as the man chuckled. »Obviously, it was never taught that staring isn't polite~«

While the snake-with-feathers was certainly rude, Harry was too enchanted by the locket to feel that much offense. Instead, the child gasped, eyes widening further. »You can talk!« he said delightfully, wiggling about happily at the knowledge that this really was a special locket—the best birthday present _ever_—and he had been lucky enough to be given it.

»_It_ talks,« the serpent answered, reply bemused as it looked Harry up and down, slitted eyes wide with shock at the fact that this apparent _Muggle_ was speaking _Parseltongue_.

»Interesting,« the man in the portrait murmured quietly as he gently snapped his serpent's jaw closed from where it had previously dropped. He wandered closer to the front of the portrait, becoming slightly larger as he echoed his familiar's gesture in looking the boy up and down, taking in his features with a pleased smirk. »So you're a Parselmouth.«

Harry's nose wrinkled slightly at that, head tilted to the side as he tried to make out the man's words. There were lots of extra _ssss_'s to his letters—the snake's talking had been much clearer, though Harry could still understand the man with a bit more concentration on his part. »What's a Parselmouth?« the boy asked as curiosity got the best of him.

»Someone who can speak Parseltongue,« the man answered as his green, green eyes danced with wicked amusement—knowing full well that this explanation wasn't at all an explanation for the confused child.

»…what's Parseltongue?« Harry ventured after a moment or two of silence when his curiosity could no longer stand the strain of _not knowing_; however, the boy still had the feeling that he was being teased; the smirk that deepened on the man's face gave truth to that, and the boy frowned in answer—he didn't like it when others teased him. He got enough bullying from the Dursleys here at home.

The serpent, however, managed to intervene before the man could continue toying with him. »Parseltongue is the language of snakes. Two-leggers who can speak to us are called Parselmouths. It's a rare gift, and you should most assuredly feel honored by it.«

_I can speak to snakes…_ Harry thought in awe, disregarding the fact that it was a gift that his relatives would most assuredly continue to call him "freak" over, but… at this moment, it was a special secret that he could keep close to his heart, warm and _all his_. »What're your names…?«

He waited, silent, breath held as he wondered if the emerald-eyed man would tell him that he was Merlin—a great, powerful sorcerer that had somehow been sent to Harry, to become the boy's friend! He had never had a friend before, and the thought that his very first friend might be someone that the entire world knew… it made the boy giddy with anticipation.

The serpent chuckled in answer, twining its way idly around the body of the man. »My Master named me Xiuhcoatl. It's the Nahuatl word for a weapon of destruction,« it told the boy, smug and satisfied with knowing that the child would look upon it with awe.

The man, however, ruined it by glancing down at his familiar and raising one dark brow.

There was silence for several drawn-out breaths, and Harry waited patiently for the continuation. He knew what that look meant because it was usually the _Look_ that Aunt Petunia shot at him when she thought that he wasn't praising the Dursleys enough for their various kindnesses when strangers asked about his living situation. And thus: Sighing softly with the knowledge that the second meaning of its name was much less impressive, the feathered snake continued, »…and it also means fire serpent.«

A tongue-in-cheek reference, on the sorcerer's part, to the fact that the serpent's brilliantly colored plumage came in various shades of deep-red and lit crimson, the tips of certain feathers adopted a blood-orange tint. Understanding the reference and entertained by the joke, Harry giggled softly before immediately clamping a hand over his mouth when the feathered serpent gave him a Look.

»I'm sorry, Xiuhcoatl,« the boy apologized, instantly contrite. »I think that it's a wonderful name, and both meanings suit you really, _really_ well. I wish that my name was just as awesome as yours.«

»And what is your name, two-legger?« the snake asked, not at all mollified with Harry's apology. To appease its bad temper, the man stroked a hand over its beautifully vibrant plumage, soothing it back to a relaxed temperament.

Harry glanced away at this, fiddling with the locket's chain and unable to bring himself to meet the bright green gaze that awaited him. How did he explain the fact that he sometimes wondered if he really _had_ a name? All of his life, his relatives had referred to him as either "freak" or "boy" and when he had started the first grade, the teachers had called him "Harry" or "Mr. Potter." How was he supposed to know that it wasn't just some made-up name that the Dursleys had given to him so that the outside-world wouldn't be suspicious.

»Tell me,« the man said, voice deep and commanding enough that Harry shuddered at the tone of voice.

The boy licked his lips nervously, still too ashamed to look up and meet that waiting gaze. »…I… don't really know if it's my real name,« he whispered. »I mean, teachers call me Harry Potter and sometimes other adults, too, but my family calls me "boy" or… or… "freak." That's it. So I don't really know if Harry Potter is my real name or not…«

The portrait of the man paused for a moment, musing over the stilting, halting words before giving a one-shouldered shrug. »Then take pride in it and make it your own. A name is many things: a person's identity, the reflection as to who they are. Their strengths and weaknesses, the destiny that they shall one day accomplish. "Boy" and "freak" are not _names_; have no pride in them. But "Harry Potter" is the type of name that a boy can take the time to grow into. Take pride in it and make it a strong name—claim it as your own, just as I claimed mine, and when the time is right… _shed it_, as a snake sheds its skin, to claim another that will then reflect the power that lies within you. A name that will mirror the type of man that you will _become_.«

Harry stared in awe at the man, lips slightly parted at the frank manner in which the man spoke. He talked to Harry like he was a real person, not some nuisance that had to be fed and clothed and worked to the bone to get any particular use out of him.

»And… what name did you claim?« Harry whispered timidly, swallowing audibly before gathering together the courage to meet the harsh man's gaze once more. He was fascinated by this man in the portrait, this secret that only he could ever possibly know of. It was something that Harry fully intended on keeping to himself, always having the locket hanging about his neck. This was _special_, and Harry himself was _privileged_ to be granted such specialness.

The man laughed at that. »It is certainly not the name that I was born with—but, perhaps like myself and the other boy who could speak Parseltongue… mmm… perhaps, in time, you yourself will claim your own name, my little Snake.« The portrait smiled, its edge just barely wicked, and the man bowed slightly. »The name that I adopted and went down in history… ah, my little Snake. You may call me Salazar Slytherin.«

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It was dark.

Harry hadn't expected it to be dark because, no matter what, there had always been light in his dreams—sunlight, starlight, the verdant, shimmering light that occasionally plagued his nightmares. No matter what type, there was always light, a light that always existed to contrast starkly with the dull, muted darkness—the drabness of each and every day that he existed (for _lived_ was too strong a word) with the Dursleys.

He sat on the floor—or at least thought that it was the floor because, regardless, there was something solid and hard beneath his bottom—and looked up into the face of the man who had crimson eyes.

"You have no nose," the boy felt the need to inform the stranger as his head tilted to the side to take in more than just that hellfire gaze. The man was pale, deathly so, and Harry could see the pale blue of veins threading just beneath the parchment-thin layer of skin. No ears, no nose—_obviously_, since the boy had pointed _that_ out—and no lips. No hair, either, and Harry had to admit that he was rather snake-y looking, though anyone would have admitted that Xiuhcoatl was _much_ more attractive. At least that serpent had hair—er, feathers.

The man-creature sneered at that, lipless mouth pulling away from his teeth to reveal a pair of delicately pointed canines. "And your mother apparently taught you no manners," the thing shot back, surprising Harry at its ability to actually _speak_; so it was sentient…?

Still, though, it didn't take long before the actual words processed themselves, and Harry crossed his arms over his chest and scowled up at the normally intimidating being (_normally_ being the operative word because it didn't matter that the world was cloaked in darkness—this man-creature still had _no nose_!). "Of course she didn't," Harry said in answer, surprisingly willing to enter into the duel of words. "It's kinda hard to if she's _dead_."

Even now, years later, the fact that he didn't have parents was enough to bring a sting of sharp-edged pain to Harry's chest, and the boy blinked and glanced away: instantly contrite and apologetic in that he had spoken of his mother in such a way.

What was shocking, however, was the fact that it seemed to silence the man-creature; it stepped away, taken aback by the boy's words, and it… _paused_… before taking a closer look at the child. "…then rest assured that your father has been lax in his parental duties in teaching you manners," it ventured, obviously groping to find itself on solid verbal ground.

How _odd_ it was to be on the losing end of a verbal battle with a _child_.

If anything, though, that just brought a deeper scowl to Harry's mouth. "He's gone, too. Just like my mum." The bitterness of years with the Dursleys had done nothing to erase the loss that he felt at the knowledge that he was an orphan—perhaps one may even argue that his duration with his relations had made that loss that much more poignant. It could certainly be argued, as well, that the loss of his parents was the direct cause for the misery that he had felt since he was a baby.

"Ah, so you're an orphan."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Harry abruptly informed the other, glancing away before turning around to present his stiff back to the man-creature. "It's rude, anyway, to pry into other people's business."

A bemused reply: "And yet you were the one who started it. You commented upon my lack of nose."

Harry glanced over his shoulder at that, raising an eyebrow in a way that made him look far, far too cynical for his age. "That's different. That's your face—anyone can see that and comment on it. Besides, Mr. Slytherin says that 'precocious children are supposed to have more leeway in their development, otherwise their intellectual growth would be stunted.'"

As Harry looked up at the other man, he could see the sudden realization that dawned in those red, red eyes, and the boy shivered at the expression—the flickering, constantly shifting emotions—that soon enough filled that crimson gaze.

"The locket," the creature whispered. "You have the locket. How is this possible? _How is this possible?_" The snake-man took a threatening step forward, and Harry immediately scrabbled back and away from the oncoming figure, hyperventilating slightly as the darkness within this mind-room, this soul-room, became absolute. He recognized the expression upon the creature's face: it was the same type of look that Uncle Vernon had when he was angry and blamed something on Harry, hungrily, predatorily intent on harming the boy.

Harry knew that this creature would hurt him far more thoroughly than his uncle ever did.

»_Stay away from me!_« the child shrieked as some sort of external pressure began to press down upon his chest, smothering him and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Terrified, Harry flung out a hand and the creature went flying away from him to land haphazardly on the floor far away from him.

Obviously stunned by the rough landing—and the fact that the child had done magic, _magic!_—the creature looked up to meet the boy's frightened gaze and realized—belatedly—that the child had spoken in _Parseltongue_.

»What _are_ you?« he breathed in a mockery of Harry's own thoughts: but it was too late because the ten year-old was rubbing fiercely at his face, forcing himself to wake up from this nightmare that he did not want. His touch was rough, harsh enough to claw at his skin, _would_ claw at his skin if he was not more careful. The creature took a step closer and, suddenly, a wave of magic pulsed through the air, drawing the boy up, up, _up_ out of the darkness that lingered deep within his mind, deep within his soul...

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Harry's eyes snapped open to stare up at the underside of the staircase.

He curled over onto his side and shifted into a fetal position, weeping and silently sobbing into his pillow as the remnants of the horrible nightmare clung to his waking dream. Never—_never_—before had he been so terrified, so sure that someone would come to harm him, wanted to do nothing _but_ harm him.

The boy did not notice how the locket warmed slowly against his skin, dangling _just-so_ from its chain, and from where it was pressed snugly, resting over his heart.


End file.
